


Leaving things undone

by CatRoofDance



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Bit Not Good, Experimental, First Person Perspective, M/M, Slash, Twisted, fpp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:11:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatRoofDance/pseuds/CatRoofDance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And I just can’t let him leave (I think) when there are things undone."<br/>John receives a letter. Everything changes. Sherlock has seven days to stop John from leaving 221b Bakerstreet. His plan: written down on a small piece of paper. Seven days, seven ways. <br/>But what will happen if he can't prevent it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hullo,
> 
> well, yes, I said I would pause a bit, but then I saw during a 6 hour ride, hidden in my notebook, the notes for this little Sherlock series, and I decided to bring it to life.
> 
> There will be 9 chapters, a prologue, seven days and then day eight, so please brace yourself!
> 
> There will be some fun (and maybe even something one could call fluff), but mostly something out of Sherlocks twisted mind. And in the end, there will be cake...oh wait, no, there will be slash.
> 
> Also: I hope the first person perspective works, and I hope the little thingy with the brackets works as well (it's my interpretation of Sherlocks twisted mind that won't stop and sometimes betrays him). Please tell me if it's plausible.
> 
> And now: Enjoy the prologue :)

**Leaving things undone**

 

**  
**

**Prologue:**

**  
**

Thinking about it, I realize there had been many clues ( _of course, I saw them but ignored them)_. Many things that should have made me wonder. Why didn’t I observe them?

Mycroft, talking about responsibility and distraction and unhealthy choices ( _I nod, I always nod and ignore him)._

John, throwing away letters _(and his eyes so hard to interpret)_.

Some books and tea cups and folders disappearing from their usual places _(and my hands searching for them just for ten minutes and then losing interest)._

I ignored them. ( _Stupid, stupid....)_

 

London is reflected in the cabs window _(oh beautiful London, you buzzing old city, full of these dark alleys and crimes and deaths and people, all these various characters)_ , and I lean against the cold class, dark curls almost too long. There was a case, of course, a serial killer leaving notes on playing cards ( _tricky, a challenge!)_. That had engaged me for quite a while, no time for haircuts, no time for brothers and flatmates or disappearing stuff in 221b Bakerstreet. The changes happened while I was out, visiting crime scenes, talking to Lestrade _(or better: fighting with his incredible incompetence)_ , solving the riddle.

Even if I’m sitting silently in the cab my mind is racing, well, it always is, it can’t calm down, it sees all these things that others don’t see, and I’m happy with it, just sometimes I wish it would be quiet for some seconds _._ I finally managed to break the code, was able to locate the culprit _(this clever bastard!)_ , and after a long night and a race through London they found and arrested him, he smiled at me, he was happy to get caught, _(always so eager the clever ones)._

The adrenalin still rushes through my body _(the sweet rush of a solved crime that will not last for long)_ , even if the murderer was captured hours ago and all that is left was paper work and the court case, I never go there, I write things down, _(things they won’t even read)_. But it isn’t over yet, this case, there is but one last thing to do, and that is telling John the whole story _(John, my faithful blogger, John, the one I called a friend once)_ John who surprisingly had decided to stay home.

Sitting in my cab to Bakerstreet, I like cabs, it’s silent in here as soon as I tell the driver that I don’t want to talk, _(and London out there seems like a moving picture, a stretched photograph)_ , I wonder how John will react. He might be angry; after all I have barely been home for weeks, all my attention focused on the case John doesn’t like that, _(it has nothing to do with affection, really),_ just the strange thing called friendship that requires so much work and actually demands to spend some time with the other one and talk and stuff, but on the other hand, I offered him more than once to participate, to come with me to the crime scenes, to join me in the fun _(I didn’t say the last thing, though, I know that to John it’s a bit not good)_. John refused, talked about work and other things I can’t quite remember because they weren’t important at that time. ( _Stupid, stupid…)_

John can never be angry at me for too long, I learned that while living with him. Soon he will be interested in this twisted case _(at last he likes the dark cases as much as I do, he just doesn’t say it out loud)_ , he will sit down, maybe take his laptop and then he will stare at me in anticipation _(and he will lick his lip like he always does when he’s interested or excited)_ and wait for me to start telling the story. Later he will write it down in his blog, smiling at himself and his great literary talent, choosing stupid titles like _The Joker Case_ and leaving all the best parts out, ( _basically the parts with me making deductions_ , _because “it is quite tedious for normal people to read”)._ But still, I actually like the little rowing we have from time to time, I enjoy it _(it’s when my mind calms down a bit)_. It is the last thing I do before I fall back down into boring blackness, before I vanish and become a zombie-like being, crouching on the sofa and waiting for my phone to ring _(while I listen to the rushing sound of my head screaming for work)_.

With this in mind, I leave the cab when it stops in front of my _(our)_ flat. Outside it is still cold and it rains a bit, just small drops which are forerunners of a rainstorm _(the clouds at the horizon, the way they build themselves up above the crystalline buildings of London, the pressure easily felt inside my ear that tells me about the depression)_ , winter hasn’t left yet, and a strong wind blows down the street.

That particular wind forces the man, leaving 221b Bakerstreet at that very moment, to keep his umbrella shut and prop up his coat collar _(I wonder if I ever saw him without his umbrella since he left for becoming the government)_. When he looks up he meets my gaze, which must _(I admit)_ look quite surprised, because I didn’t expect him to be here and he tries to smile and he instantly knows that he failed to do it properly.

“Sherlock”, Mycroft simply says _(I hate how my name sounds like when it comes out of his mouth)_ , nodding at me and lifting his hand, a sign for his car, which probably waited just a few yards down the street to pick him up. He doesn’t show the slightest inclination to talk to me, so he hadn’t been here to see me, and talking to Mrs. Hudson seems unlikely, so John it was _,_ and a frown forms on my face. 

“Anything of importance?” I ask my ( _older)_ brother, turning around in front of the door before I enter the flat and before Mycroft can disappear into his saloon car.

Something that I can only call a sad expression _(I can’t say yet why, not enough information)_ forms on Mycroft’s face, he looks away from me, _(as if he tries to avoid eye contact)_ and says, silent against the wind: “I just reminded Dr. Watson of something he seemed to have forgotten.”

A strange feeling appears inside my stomach, I ate this morning, and I know it’s not hunger, but I don’t like the feeling of not knowing something, so I trick myself into believing it’s just hunger; _(it never works)_ , and it pushes away the excitement I felt on my way home. So, telling John all about my last case has to wait.

And when I enter the flat I can smell that something had happened _(I can smell the change)_. Usually our living room is filled with the scent of tea and scones, mixed with traces of chemicals I use for my experiments in the kitchen _(at some point John gave up complaining, I bet he actually likes the smell now)_. There also is the subtle smell of dust, swirling up from old books I sometimes bring with me _,_ floating through the room and settling on the wallpaper just till a sudden breeze raises it again. All in all it is something I appreciate. Nothing smells like our flat, it smells of things I ( _well, not love, of course)_ can bear with. It is the closest thing to home I ever had, and surprising how easily this thought comes up, given the energy I spent months ago to suppress it _(because it’s a thought full of emotions I don’t need)_.

But now there is another scent in the air, overlaying everything with its sharp heaviness _(spicy, dark, fume, just fume_ ). I know that smell. The smell of cigarettes.

“You never smoke”, I say when entering the kitchen. One simple sentence, but my mind is racing. Cigarettes, _(he never smokes!),_ so something changed, something is new.It can’t be that he just gives it a try _,_ that’s not John, _(no, no)_ something happened. He needs a cigarette _,_ why does he need to smoke, to alleviate stress?Tea always did the job, even if he is tired _, (and he is often tired, it’s the job and the crimes),_ but even then a nice warm cup of tea always helps with the stress, so what’s new? What else, what did I miss?

John looks up; he leans against the counter, the partly smoked cigarette in his hand _(a strange picture, I file it: John’s fingers around a cigarette)_.

“Well, obviously I do. Right now”, he says, lifting the fag to his mouth, taking a pull _(I file that too)_.

I decide to ignore John’s sarcasm and blame a stressful day in the hospital for it. But that isn’t enough for John to change his habits. There is something else.

“What did you talk about? Mycroft and you?” I ask, sounding as incidentally as possible while going through some letters which lie on the kitchen table between Petri dishes and flasks. Nothing of interest, but I keep focusing on the papers in my hands, I don’t want to look as if I actually care _(and meanwhile I already have a couple of theories, I give them numbers in an imaginary list)_.

John stays silent for a while, slowly breathing out the smoke _(the nicotine patch on my forearm itches_ ). Finally he stubs the cigarette out in a small teacup.

“You seemed pretty occupied the last weeks…” he starts. I grunt, my gaze still fixed on the letter I read about ten times already.

“Occupied, yes. It was a case, a good case, even. I offered you to come along but you were busy too, and it seemed like you didn’t care about what I was doing, so, well, yes, I was occupied. Problem?”

John clenches his hands into fists, his body strains, his pupils wander down, fixating the ground. I notice all these little changes in John’s body while watching him through my long curls falling down from my forehead _(I_ _really need a haircut)._

“You know, Sherlock”, _(I like it more when he says my name, it sounds different)_ , “the world keeps turning, even when you’re not around, just in case you wondered. There are things happening to others, surprisingly even to me. And usually you are the first one to notice that, but not this time, so I just assume that I became boring and that you don’t give a FUCK AT ALL.”

I look up in surprise. John shouted the last three words in my direction, and I was totally unprepared for an emotional outburst like that _(Boring, John? How could you ever become boring?)_ I want to scream out these words but that would be stupid.

Instead I try to remember what happened the last weeks, I want to answer with some information _(information, the stuff I sometimes live off, forget food, forget water)_ , something that would show John that I of course listened to him, and that he is wrong, but all I can remember is the case ( _and the riddle, the cards and the cipher and that clever bastard that managed to escape for three long weeks)_. I frown, try to concentrate _(think, think!)_ , but there is John and he is really upset _(I don’t like that look, it’s new, it contains so much more anger than “you put a head in our fridge again”)_ and I watch him, unable to say anything at all _(this is new as well, interesting)_ and suddenly he shakes his head and chuckles resigned.

“Well, maybe this is it”, John says, more to himself. “You know, I received a letter lately, the first of many, I must say, because I tried to ignore them all.”

_(John, throwing away letters. His gaze so sad and lost.)_

“And as it seems Mycroft has his fingers in this as well, I don’t understand it at all, and that was what we were talking about, actually, a lot of shouting was involved too.”

_(Mycroft, talking about responsibility and distraction and unhealthy choices)_ I nod, I always nod without listening closely to him. I can’t even remember when we had that conversation.

“But I knew from the start that I couldn’t do anything against it, so I began packing my things weeks ago. I thought that would be the minute you would realise it.”

_(Some books and tea cups and folders disappearing from their usual places)_ My hands, searching for the things, only minutes until I lose interest. _(Only minutes.)_

My eyes widen, I watch John taking the small cup with the cigarette butt in it and putting it into the sink. When he turns around he looks angry again, but sad at the same time, ( _a strange mixture, impossible to interpret)_.

“You did _not_ notice. I guess that makes it easier, right? I thought you would be, well, not upset, that’s not you, but maybe a littlebit annoyed of the thought of me leaving this place.”

“Leaving….this…place?” I mouth John’s last words, almost inaudible _(and the pieces of the puzzle are clicking together)_.

“One week, Sherlock, and it’s all yours”, John laughs bitterly, waving his hands around. Then he leaves, his steps are heavy on the stairs _(the sound of him limping again hurts)_ , he doesn’t bang the door, he just goes away like everything has been said _(and maybe it has)._

I’m left behind and stare at the sink in which the cup lies. The smell of the cigarette smoke still fills the room the smell of new habits and stress and change _(and John leaving)_. Suddenly I spot a letter placed on the counter where John stood. I slowly move toward it, try to reach for it but then I stop. I see the emblem _(the lion; the crown; the crossed swords)_. The British Army.

And I know everything.

This is the moment I decide, that I can’t let him go, I can’t say why, I just know it must not happen. I’ve got seven days. A whole week _(today’s Sunday, tomorrow is Monday, and he will leave the Monday after that)._ Seven ways to stop him from leaving.

In the end I decide, that John didn’t fulfill his task yet _(I trick myself again; I have no idea what John’s task would be)_ , but I keep telling me that he isn’t done here _I need a reason, there always has to be one)_. In my head ideas are forming themselves _(seven days, seven ways),_ my fingers are already searching for a pen and paper.

 And I just can’t let him leave _(I think)_ when there are things undone.

 


	2. Day 1: Ignorance

 

 

**Day 1: Ignorance**

My skin itches. A light tingling, not right on the supreme layer of skin _(the epidermis),_ a few millimetres deeper, somewhere between the loose nerve endings inside the dermis _(corium layer)._ I know what that pruritus means _(call it itching, people never understand what you want to say, their mind is hopelessly jammed with things completely subsidiary),_ I know the categories and I know that my kind of itch won’t fit in one of them. It’s emotional, pure imagination, and the fact that I know and accepted that _(supposedly the best way to get rid of these kinds of imagination)_ doesn’t seem to impress the tingling much.

I lift my arm, there under the tiny hair the itching is the worst so far, and then I try to suppress the unpleasant feeling with pure concentration _(focusing, sounds like a forbidden voodoo technique, in the end it’s just the attempt of ruling your own brain)_ , but it’s no use, my body was always inferior to my mind. Sometimes I have the feeling my brain accepts the clumsy mass, the long, thin limbs, the dark streaks, the cold eyes, just because without that it, it would be lying somewhere in the blackness, without a task. The thought of my mind being separated from my body, and myself somewhere between these two, a small little something that nearly vanishes, this thought must be very strange for some people _(that’s why I never speak it out loud, they often enough mistake me for crazy, although I know full well which things to say out loud and which I just keep to myself, turning them around in my mind over and over again)._

I lift my other arm, skim along the cool skin with my fingertips, and then I bend the knuckles and the fingernails scratch the epidermis _(not deep enough),_ and so I push the edges deeper, dragging them along the whole forearm down to the wrist _(the tingling becomes a burning),_ leaving angry red traces between white skin. I repeat the process until the itching abates completely, and to be on the safe side I scratch down the arm two more times until the upmost layer of skin sticks entirely under my fingernails and little, red pearls flush the itching out of the dermis.

And then I lower my arm and grab the filler, copy the list I wrote down hastily, making beautiful, curved letters. Seven issues, the notes behind the single words explain the approach. Then I underline day one. **Ignorance** , it says, the ‘g’ has a wide curve down _(odd, I don’t recognize my own handwriting)._

My arm’s burning _(and it’s so much better than the itching)._

 

_  
_

John makes tea. He burns his index and middle finger with boiling water _(he’s absent minded, of course),_ but he doesn’t curse, he stays quiet. He prepared two cups, I can’t see it from the sofa, but I heard it _(two times the clicking of porcelain on wood, two times the rushing of the teapot when it’s tilted and water gushes out),_ but he doesn’t bring it into the living room. Maybe he wants to prepare me for the time when he’s gone _(John, I drank tea before you were here, what makes you think I can’t brew it myself?)_ , but I ignore it, act like I doesn’t know about the second cup and settle back on the sofa, poring over my copy of Gerhard von Cremonas “Das Buch der Alaune und Salze” _(The book of alums and salts)._

My plan: **Ignorance.** That worked well with John before _(the paradox of the human being: If you give him attention, he doesn’t want it, if you do the other thing, it seems to magically attract him),_ and I think he will fall for my taciturnity and indifference, and he will sit in front of me, he will speak my name _(several times, because I won’t respond immediately, I like him saying my name, he stresses these two syllables like no other),_ and then he will talk and I will just nod and finally he will know for himself that he can’t go. He will stay _(because I want him to)._

But then John just stands there besides his armchair, the scalded fingers around the hot cup of tea _,_ he inhales the descending steam and observes me over the rim of the cup _(and I can’t look at him for too long, because his gaze, his eyes)._

I don’t want to pay attention to him, want to keep up appearances that I don’t care about the whole situation; I don’t want him to know that it bothers me, that my skin tingles at the thought of being alone soon _(and that I scratch it until it bleeds because my mind rules my body like a tyrant)._ But finally John lowers the cup in his hand, at the bottom stick the last sugar pieces that didn’t melt completely, and he turns around and wants to go into the kitchen when I feel his name upon my tongue _(it tastes of warmth and butterscotch, John’s  name),_ and I spit it out without noticing.

“John”, I say, I hear it with a delay, the book placed upon my lap. And John doesn’t even turn around, he just shakes his head lightly and says “I don’t want to talk about it, Sherlock. It will happen. Let us spend the last week in peace”, and then he rinses the cup _(he never does that immediately; it’s a reflex of people who know that they’ll leave soon and won’t come back)._

My tea in the kitchen is cold by now, but John leaves it, like a memorial _(and I know the formula to calculate the energy loss of a hot cup, but really, I don’t care in the slightest)._

 

_  
_

Later I’m standing in his room. He sleeps, without nightmares, he’s lying so calmly inside his bed, and in the twilight I can see his breathing. Sometimes I watch him for nights on end, the humans’ breathing is like a pendulum, it has a mesmerising effect, a constant up and down, back and forth. I don’t sleep much myself _(the tyrant won’t let me, he thinks and thinks),_ but I can regain new strengths from watching John do so. When he has nightmares, though, I always leave instantly, I feel uneasy then _(and if he knew I sometimes see him for some seconds in that moment of weakness, he would probably hate me)._ But now he’s lying so calm and breathes so quiet that I almost believe he died in sleep _(a death many people wish for which I can’t quite understand)._ The shelves in the dim light which falls through the closed curtains are empty. Cartons and boxes pile up in one corner of the room.

 **Ignorance,** I think. It’s when someone doesn’t pay attention to someone else, willingly, intentionally _(and here I stand inside his room and watch him as there was nobody else in this world)._

And I think that never before someone ignored someone so actively _(and failed so completely)._  


	3. Day 2: Logic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, after failing completely with ignorance, tries Logic next. Something he is good at, normally.
> 
> I have a little game for you. I wonder if you could guess the next article on his list, or maybe not the very next but one of remaining ones. It would be funny to hear what you think about Sherlocks twisted mind and what he can think of with it ;)
> 
> Apart from that: Have fun :)

**Day 2: Logic**

It’s not logical.

Deductions can only be made with the help of **logic** , I realise the true order of things, I see the connections between details and draw conclusions. But it must always _(always!)_ be logical. You can’t understand the concatenation of events if they happened in an illogical chronology. The brain works per experience, and it expects the most likely thing first _(and **logic** is most likely). _How could someone assume illogicality and solve a mystery by that? And still there is the fear of the crime without motive, the murder without reason. _(Would I be able to solve a crime like that? And would it be a felony anyway?)_ **Logic** governs my trains of thought and it’s quite satisfying if you wrap your mind around it completely _(and it hurts so badly if one piece doesn’t fit, as if a piece from a different puzzle cheated its way in, and no matter how I look at it, it won’t fit in)._

John acts logically. Always. Sometimes it’s a strange kind of **logic** _(when he shot the cabbie without thinking about it, when he wrapped his arms around Jim Moriarty, the bomb so close to his heart, and yelled at me to run)._ but afterwards I understand his actions, I guess why he did it, because John _(my loyal John)_ is always the helper, always the one who sacrifices himself because he thinks the life of others is worth more than his own _(or is it just my life he values so much?)._ It’s John’s **logic** that is behind his actions, and I don’t share it, but understand.

But there is nothing logical in our current situation. The letter: an enigma. Why should the Army reclaim him? It’s simply not possible that they request someone who was wounded in action to return. But on the other side I really don’t know what reasons they named, the letter which arrived weeks ago disappeared long since and there is probably nothing more left than ashes _(strange, this irony, the item that changes everything, is nothing more than dust between fingers by now, and still the effect lasts)_ The document I saw last Sunday in the kitchen was just a reminder, a warning, a threatening finger. Far too less information. And yet: Not logical.

Why does John just put up with it _(why doesn’t he fight back, why doesn’t he scream and curse, why is he so calm and so sad and just stands there and stays silent)?_

 

I open my eyes, the room is colourless, an old black and white photograph. Without noticing it the second day passed me by while I was lying on the sofa and thought about **logic** and got angry because nothing makes sense. Now it dawns, and somewhere out there the city noises get lost between raindrops _(London sounds oddly far away, like a different town),_ and the wooden floor tiles upstairs creak _(I didn’t even realised John came home from work, did he greet me without getting an answer, like a ghost?)._

I slowly sit up, rest my elbows on my knees and put my head between my hands _(sometimes I need to bear myself)._ I see my mobile phone lying on the coffee table, the display lights up for some seconds, shows me three missed calls from a name that usually gives me new cases. But I don’t feel like hunting criminals _(I feel exhausted, and in actual fact my mind is occupied enough),_ and yes, Lestrade will be surprised and maybe he will worry a bit _(the nature of a good man),_ but I don’t care.

Besides my mobile lies the list, the list with seven experiments. I crossed the first article out, suppress the fact that I failed with ignorance this time _(and normally no one is better in ignoring than I am!)_ Now there stands **logic,** highlighted and underlined, and I remember that I lied down onto the sofa this morning after John left the house, and started trying to understand the **logic** our situation _(and I seem to have failed, again)._

Finally I stand up, my joints feel stiff, no wonder given the fact I lied on the sofa the whole day. I leave the living room, silently climb the stairs up to John’s room, and then I stand in front of the closed door and eavesdrop, one ear carefully placed against the cool wood. But it’s quiet inside, so he pauses, maybe he heard me, maybe he just sits on his bed motionless _(and maybe he has the same thoughts about **logic** )._

I put my hand on the door handle, hesitate and then I remember John’s words, it’s long ago he said them _(it didn’t really affected him personally, it was during a case, and he touched my shoulder before I could open a door and lightly shook his head, reached his hand past me and knocked, “Be polite” he said and smiled like a big brother out of a children’s book)_ , and so I knock and wait. Then I open the door.

John stands in front of the window and turns his back on me. On the bed records and folders are scattered, apparently he tried to sort all his documents. On top pf one of upmost page of one stack I make out a small piece of paper with my name written on it, I guess these are papers regarding the flat, electricity and water and heating _(all the things he took care of, because John always takes care, he just does it, and I can’t remember who did it before him)._

“I will miss the view”, John suddenly says, one hand rests on the window pane, outside raindrops run down the glass and transform the city lights into a mosaic, and I realise that I still grab the handle and that I couldn’t move out of the doorframe as if I feared to enter forbidden ground _(even though I stand next to his bed in so many nights and watch him sleep and don’t feel guilty for a second)._

“You could just stay”, I try and think a smile would strengthen the message but I’m not able to force one _(in the end he has his back turned on me anyways)._ John shrugs his shoulders, then he turns around and looks at me _(his gaze determined, but behind his eyes there is his mind, and it tells another story, but what story exactly?)_

“There is no way around it”, he says and shakes his head, maybe because he doesn’t believe it himself _(he doesn’t want to leave)_ or he wants signify that I’m wrong and that he will leave, no matter what I say.

For a while we just watch each other and we’re just two tokens on a playing field, motionless until someone gives us a push, and suddenly London seems to be so noisy out there _(you foreign city, the ride through your streets last Sunday seems years ago),_ and the silence inside feels so crushing and I suddenly want to scream _(don’t go, don’t leave me behind),_ but can control my mind, I do all I can not to shout it out load, and then the moment disappears and John suddenly stands in front of me and presses the documents between my fingers wordlessly. He says something, I’m sure it contained the word “important”, but when I’m standing in my room half an hour later, I even forgot where I put them.

 

 

 

 

It’s not logical. This whole situation. I need more information, I think, and it comesto my mind that Mycroft has something to do with that _(sometimes I forget about Mycroft completely_ , as if my brain wants to delete his existence), I think John uttered it. I will visit him tomorrow, I decide, and of course I don’t want to, because I know how this will end.

And then I lie in my bed, stretch my bare feet until the joints grate so that it almost hurts. My hands rest on my stomach, I count my inhales, listen to the sounds of an old house, sometimes there is laughter from out of the living room _(John surely watches one of these entertainment shows their humour doesn’t become accessible to me)_ and there are police sirens just a few streets further. The wind presses raindrops against the window and my heart presses against my chest. I close my eyes and think: It’s not logical.

_(Nothing I feel is logical)_


	4. Day 3: Information

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys,
> 
> I'm really sorry it took so long. But I visited England and then I wrote almost all the chapters in German and then I needed to translate them.
> 
> Well, the good thing is, there will be regular updates from now on. I swear :)
> 
> This time, Sherlock tries to get some information. And what better person to ask than his information-dealing brother. I hope no one gets hurt...
> 
> And what will be Sherlocks next idea? Another day, another way.

**Day** **3: Information**

Mycroft has this incredible ability to appear patronising even when stirring his tea. Maybe it’s the way he bends his fingers or the pace at which he moves the spoon in circles in his cup _(and the silent clicking of metal meeting porcelain)._

I don’t want to sit, but act like I’m actually offended that he didn’t offer me a chair. He sits there in his large armchair, his suit so well tailored that you can barely see that his last diet wasn’t successful at all. The scent of Earl Grey wafts through the room, mixed with the smell of files and cigar smoke _(I always connect this certain olfactory mixture with my brother, and he’s still foreign and unfamiliar to me each time)._ We keep both silent, as if we knew that he who speaks first loses. Between us are so many unspoken things, questions and reproaches of bygone days, the strange relationship of two brothers who don’t want to be siblings, the age difference which intensifies that feeling even more _(when will the day come when these things choke us? The day we meet and breathlessly collapse under the pressure of words unsaid?)_

The spoon between Mycroft’s fingers lifts from the hot liquid beneath, beige drops fall into the cup. The silence is perfect _(and I give up)._

“Explain it,” I say, and Mycrofts hand pauses above the handle, in his face a light smile that seems carved into it since the day he left home.

“Did you lose your analytic abilities?” he asks, and I know that he enjoys it _(but why this look, this strange blurry swirl behind his pupils, like a truth hidden behind his eyes?)_

“It’s not logical,” I whisper and think about the list, folded together in my coat pocket. Even logic has left me, or I have just come across a logical construct that I can’t decipher, that isn’t accessible to me. I shiver. Too long since I reached my limit _(and I admit, the thought of it frightens me)._ Today’s tactic is called **information**. I need details, must fill in gaps in my sketches and solve riddles. I really need to sort all that stuff out or I will lose my head. And before I can turn around, it will be Monday and the case lost _(and the flat will be so empty and silent and soon only smell of me)._

“Do you remember our conversation a while ago, about responsibility?” Mycroft asks. I look up and know he can read the lie in my eyes before I can even say it out loud, so he just goes on. “Well, of course not. Such a big mind but there seems to be no place for your brother’s words. A foolish mistake, Sherlock, letting brotherly rivalry rule your ingenious mind.” He sighs; it irritates me. Mycroft seldom sighs, and if he does, it usually is for strategic reasons. But a sigh at this point makes no sense at all. Therefore I stay quiet _(and logic slips even more)._

“Responsibility.” Mycroft expresses this word like one of the Ten Commandments, as if it were something holy _(and maybe for Mycroft it is)._ “You don’t have a clue what this word means. Certainly, you can tell me its definition, the connotation, you can recite some dictionary entries or whatever you conjure up from your mind palace. But the real meaning of this word is unknown to you. And how should you know-” _(at this point he sighs again and his eyes glaze over),_ “-I told you that you endanger people, do you remember that?”

_(“It’s dangerous to solve crimes, Sherlock, and to roam through the nocturnal streets of London. But it’s even more dangerous to do exactly these things with someone who doesn’t look back when he starts running.”)_

I nod.

“Good. Do you also remember what I said about distraction?”

_(“You’re useful, Sherlock, and I mean it exactly the way I said it. Useful. They can say what they want about your character, although maybe it’s better to say nothing at all about it, because eventually it will make you more efficient. You solve cases others don’t even understand yet, and we need such people. And by ‘we’ I mean the country, just to make that clear. For Queen and Country. I know you don’t like that, but never forget what would happen if we were to take the crimes away from you. You can’t live without them. I saw you when you were young, I know the scars in the crook of your arm and the names of your contacts. Sherlock, we need your head. We can’t afford to lose it.  And now to the next point: distraction. You are distracted. You don’t even notice it yourself, and that’s the startling part of it, it shows how serious it already is. There must not be a second pool incident. There won’t be. We will make sure of that.”)_

How could I forget about that conversation?

Mycroft stares at me with dulled eyes, his fingertips lightly stroke the handle of his cup, the liquid in it long cooled down.

“I warned you, Sherlock. I said we’ll take charge of it. We won’t lose our best head. We’ll probably save a life with that, before it lies shattered on the floor of a London alley or another bomb vest tears it apart.”

My eyes widen when the details become clear and are put together like rusty scratching hinges.

“What have you done?” I ask breathlessly _(and it doesn’t sound like my voice)._

Mycrofts face frowns almost painfully and I come to the strange conclusion that this really isn’t easy for him. And still I can’t hold down my anger _(and my hands tingle, my legs are shaking under my own body weight and my brain is getting so hot and pressing against the inner side of my skull)._

“He will return to Afghanistan. He won’t be sent to the front, though, aside from the fact that there isn’t such a thing as a front anymore. We have beat  a hasty retreat.” _(He laughs emotionless)._ “Nevertheless, they need people to train the novices, people who know the drill. I spoke to some of my contacts...”

He can’t go on because I lunge at him, push him and his smug grin back against his high armchair _(how did that happen, a second ago I was standing there on the other side of the table, and now I’m here),_ he exhales in surprise, lifts his hands uselessly while mine are placed around his neck _(I can feel the pulse under the skin and the anger in my body)._ He gasps and his cheeks become red _(and all I can think is: how do I dispose of the body? Many ideas come into my mind and I think I could do it, I could commit the perfect murder and get away with it, but in the end it wouldn’t solve any of my current problems),_ and for the first time I see his face without the grin and without the mask, and when I see his eyes I let go of his neck and struggle backwards in surprise. Mycroft coughs; I stare at my hands _(they don’t seem to belong to my body anymore)._

After a while, when Mycroft can breathe almost normally again, he adjusts his tie and looks up at me. The smile has disappeared _(and I can’t bear it, I watch him for a few seconds, then I have to turn my head away)._

“Listen, Sherlock. You won’t understand it now, but it’s for the best for both of you.” _(Since when can Mycroft claim these things? Since when does he actually utter such words? And what does it mean that it’s for the best? Better than what?)_

Eventually I can’t stand it anymore and I turn around. My hand touches the door, my head so close to the wood that my breath tingles over the grain.

“What did John say? Why doesn’t he fight it?” I silently ask, my words disappearing between wood fibres.

“He raged,” Mycroft tells me, and I hear a smile _(a real one)._ “Then I told him exactly the same as I have just told you. And he calmed down and began packing his things.”

I nod. Then I open the door and leave the room.

“Let him go,” my brother shouts after me before the gap closes.

 

 

 

 

“John?”

“Hm?”

“Why do you want to leave?”

“Because there are no alternatives.”

“I’ll find one. You know me.”

“It’s for the best.”

John goes away and leaves me in the kitchen. It’s an attempt to prepare me for his absence once again. Slow withdrawal. Reduce the doses until you’re completely clean.

I don’t want to be clean. I don’t want things to change. I don’t want something to be ‘for the best’. Nothing could be better.

In my head I sort **information** _(and I dare to put the first check mark behind point 3)._ I need to take the offensive. I must stop believing the problem will take care of itself. And the most important thing is: I need to convince John to stay; I must divert him from his resolve that he is better off without me.

_(Then I stop thinking about it because I might come to the conclusion that he actually is)._


	5. Day 4: Manipulation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took me far too long to post. I appologise. But I have a lot to do, and it's sumer, kind of. I'm planing a trip to London as well with 7 friends (we booked today, yey!) and a lot of other stuff. I hardly found the time to translate my texts. The story is finished in German and I wrote another complete one in German too (my absolute favorite one so far...) but I just can't be arsed to translate...I'm so sorry ;)
> 
> A special THANKS to my Beta reader swissmarg!

**Day 4: Manipulation**

In my dream I’m killing Mycroft. I don’t remove my hands from his neck but squeeze even more until his body gets limp and slips lifeless from his armchair. I’m thinking about how to get rid of the body when John enters the room. He looks at me, understands the situation after a few seconds, and I think: No, don’t hate me, don’t leave me! _(and here, in my dream, these thoughts are normal and I allow myself to feel, because no one sees it in here),_ and then John pushes me aside and lifts Mycrofts dead body as if it weighs nothing, and with the corpse of my brother he leaves the room. John will take care of it while I’m staying beside the armchair, shivering and knowing that they will catch him _(and he knows that too, he isn’t clever enough to cover up a murder),_ and I will never see him again.

I wake up, one arm reaching upwards, my fingers spread, and in my mouth is a word that I wanted to shout in my dream, but I can’t remember it.

_(Though I guess it was his name)._

It’s Thursday and I frown in irritation when I see the date. Where did the last three days go? I wasted two of them with tactics I thought would be efficient _(I was wrong)._ I hung the list up above my bed, a red pin is piercing the upper middle of the paper and holding it against the wallpaper. I look at the single check mark behind Day 3: Information and think that I may have information now but my actual problem has only gotten worse. Now I’m not only fighting the Army or my brother or any other authority, but John as well, something inside him that makes him believe he’s doing the right thing by leaving me.

Day 4, I whisper, and my fingers skim over paper. **Manipulation.** The Latin word means nothing more than ‘to handle’, to use an object _(from manus (lat.): hand. Manus, manus, manui, manum, manu, manus, manuum, manibus, manus, manibus.)._ Today the word has a far more negative connotation; it means to influence a person or a group of people without their knowledge, to change the perception or behavior of others through underhanded, deceptive, or even abusive tactics.

It doesn’t matter how I look at this word, it won’t make my intentions more honourable or less damnable. If I were to take the first meaning then John would be nothing more than an object, without free will, and I’d be able and allowed to use him as I like. Would it make any difference if I were to accept that John is a human being yet still form him according to my desires? _(He doesn’t know what he wants, he needs to be manipulated so he will see the truth)._ I keep telling myself that I’m doing the right thing _(until I believe it)._

It’s raining outside when I leave the flat. London’s on its best behavior this week _(as if the streets were a part of me, as if they were reflecting my insides. I like that thought. It would connect the city and me even more, although it already runs through my veins)._ The wind beats raindrops against house walls and the windows of cabs sneaking by. Reflexively, I lift my hand to wave for a car, but then I remember my actual plan while rain drips down my cheeks. I almost give up and turn around, not even three steps out of the flat. But I pull myself together, turn up my coat collar, hunch my shoulders and push my wet hands into my pockets _(and just for a second I think of Mycroft and his umbrella, his eternal companion)._

The kitchen is warm and filled with the scent of sweetish-spicy food. I know John likes to eat Indian _(he loves the tang of curry but not the bite of chili),_ so hot water is bubbling in a pot, which has turned white because of the dissolved starch of the rice. In the pan, turkey meat is frying between mangos and cashews in a curry-coconut sauce.

My coat is hanging at the door and dripping, a small transparent pool has formed underneath it. I’m leaning against the sink, a tea in my hands, and listening.

I thought about clearing the table in the kitchen but I wasn’t sure about where to put all my chemicals and equipment. To bring them to the small storage room upstairs in the attic or even down into the old moist cellar seemed impossible _(aside from the fact that I still need all this stuff)._ Therefore I left the table alone and cleared the small table in the living room instead _(it took me longer than expected, under stacks of files and documents I found some interesting things which I put away unread weeks ago because I was otherwise engaged),_ borrowed one of Mrs. Hudson’s table cloths, and set the table _(I thought about our first dinner together at Angelo’s and the candle he placed between us, giving us the thumbs-up, but I decided against it; this object is too often connected with romance)._

There is a silent clicking at the front door, then a whistling as the wind that has turned into to a storm sweeps across the floor. Keys clink against each other, followed by John calling my name _(and I wistfully file the sound of those two syllables from his mouth)._

“I’m in the kitchen,” I say and hear his steps on the stairs, despite the water boiling beside me.

When John enters the room he’s just taking his likewise dripping wet coat of. The expression on his face shifts into a disbelieving smile, he furls his eyebrows.

“What are you doing?” he asks _(a rhetorical question, it’s obvious what I’m doing; we already had a discussion about this strange kind of communication)._ Then he hangs his coat up, right beside mine, where they both enlarge the pool on the floor. He passes me, lifts the lids of both the pot and pan, sniffs at the food inside, and fortunately the smile on his face widens.

“You cooked dinner.” This time it’s a statement, and I nod hesitantly. But he narrows his eyes, takes a step closer to me and stares into my face as if he wants to spot a lie _(and my heart skips a beat, a sting inside my chest)._ “It’s not poisoned, right? I mean, this is not one of your experiments?”

I shake my head _(talking seems impossible at the moment, and I realise that I have stopped breathing),_ and his eyes are smiling again, I can see light patches within the circles of his brown irises. I smell rain on his skin, mixed with the faint scent of disinfectant which always surrounds John when he comes back from the hospital _(and for a few seconds time seems to be standing still so that I’m able to count the water drops in his hair)._

This is the moment I do something stupid.

I reach out my hand, grab his shirt and pull him the last few inches closer. He lifts his arms and supports himself against the sink behind me so as not to fall over. While he exhales in surprise I tilt my head for a better angle and then I press my lips on his and breathe his air _(and my head is screaming and screaming and screaming)._ John’s whole body tenses up, he tries not to push his body against mine _(and I don’t know where to put my arms),_ and he takes my breath, his hands are still grabbing the counteras if he were afraid of touching me and our mouths are the only point of contact. I taste his tongue on mine _(and I try to save that feeling, but it’s impossible to classify, I don’t have a file for that kind of experience in my mind palace),_ something is melting inside my stomach and spreads and I want to lift my hands and pull John closer to me. But then I hear fizzing next to us and I open my eyes _(when did I close them?)_ and see the rice water boiling over and pouring foam over the hotplate.

John tumbles backwards, leaving a tingle on my lips, I don’t dare to breathe. He stares at me for a few seconds, his eyes widened, his chest rising and falling erratically.

“John…” I begin, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t,” he simply says _(and my cheeks are hot, my forehead burns),_ then he looks down in embarrassment, lifts one hand and waves vaguely towards the stove.

“You should…” he whispers hoarsely. I just nod _(the English language betrays me)_ and pull the boiled-over pot away from the hotplate. Steam fills the kitchen when I lift the lid, the window fogs and damp air clogs my lungs. Outside the storm is beating hail against the house wall, it’s clattering.

When I turn around, John is gone.

 

 

 

 **Manipulation** , I think when I’m lying on my bed later. My fingertips skim over my lips. Who is manipulating whom? I planned to make his life a bit easier, to prove to him that I’m useful _(I shudder because I chose the same word as my brother)._ When did I decide to bind him emotionally and sexually?

I stare at the ceiling and consider whether it’s a good idea. And then I try to find out if it was an idea at all or if it just happened _(I search for that moment in my mind palace, but can’t find it anywhere, my brain was too overwhelmed to save it properly, and I silently curse)._ I come to no conclusion; I roll from one side of my bed to the other, bury my hands in my dark curls, pull at single strands and resist the urge to give in to the itching once again. 

And eventually, when I doze somewhere between sleep and waking, I remember parts of the scene in the kitchen, and I try to hold on to them as long as possible, but in the end just one thing remains. One thing I carefully put into a new file inside my mind.

_(John Watson tastes like his name: of warmth and caramel)._


	6. Day 5: Desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting a bit hot in here, right? Well, Sherlock, a kiss is not enough? Give in to your desire, would you?

**Day 5: Desire**

Actually, it doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter what happens when he leaves. I lived alone before I met him _(quite well in fact)._ I know how to make tea, how to order food and gulp down a few bites. The city isn’t a mystery to me, just as little as the people here. They disgust me at most, or confuse me with their incompetence and fatuity. But I know how to handle them. That’s why it really shouldn’t matter that he leaves.

But it does matter. That’s the problem.

I’m sitting here with the list I wrote so carefuly, crossing out item 5 again and again. It was a stupid item, a stupid idea that wouldn’t have worked anyway _(and, angry at myself, I slash out with my pen again, tearing the paper and lightly painting the table surface)._ The list isn’t proper anymore. There are suggestions and basic approaches on how to proceed on each day scribbled in margins. But nothing can convince me. I’m finished. Over and done with.

 _(Why do I want him to stay?),_ I think and can’t find the answer. It’s not logical, it’s not typical. I’m past all recognition. _(Should I tell John? Should I admit how helpless I am? Would he believe me?)_ I imagine a scenario in which I tell him about my despair. Then I chuckle because it’s ridiculous _(childish even!)_

Some files from my mind palace appear in front of my mind’s eye, lighting up and disappearing again. I search for similar situations, digging deep into the area that is responsible for emotions, but find nothing, no precedence, no sources. No data, no information.

And then a single file flashes. It’s dark green, [inconspicuous](http://www.dict.cc/englisch-deutsch/inconspicuous.html), narrow, and it’s standing in one corner of my palace, far away from all the other things. I have to open many doors before I can enter the empty room in which the folder is lying on the ground, as if I had no idea what to do with it. There is no shelf, no gallery. Inside the folder is just one file. One sentence.

I shiver.

_(John Watson tastes like his name: of warmth and caramel)_

I open my eyes wide, feeling a sudden heat inside my stomach and press my hands against the soft skin there. From the outside it’s not any hotter than the rest _(I lay my hands tentatively on my forehead, then my upper arm and my neck: nothing)._ My accelerating heart is pumping blood through my veins, and something whooshes inside my ears _(I think of the delusion of people who hold a shell against their ear, believing they’re hearing the ocean. But it’s nothing more than our own blood echoing through our head, and this fact is much more astonishing than the idea that a sound could get caught inside a chalk shell)._

Warmth and caramel. I lick over my lip, but taste nothing, lift my fingers to my nose and sniff. Nothing. I slowly sit up, turn my head until vertebrae creak, search the inside of my mouth with my tongue. I give up, disappointed. Then I look at the list. Item 5, I think. And then: this idea is even more stupid than the one I crossed out.

_(And I get up and do it nonetheless)._

My eyes adjust to the dimness of Johns room more slowly than usual, and my steps on the old wooden floor suddenly seem so much louder. My heart is beating in my throat, it must ring out right down to Mrs. Hudson’s. I swallow, standing frozen at the door, gazing into the twilight.

John is lying in his bed. I can hardly make out his body under the blanket _(I think of the warmth underneath it, and then of Johns skin),_ my head spins and I stumble backwards against the door, putting my hand over my mouth in a panic, not wanting to make any sound. Thoughts swirl inside my head. I don’t know what I’m doing; I close my eyes and try to sort the chaos and to remember what I wanted to do upstairs: the plan, the plan.

 _(John’s mouth against mine and the taste of his tongue. His breath in my chest. The pores of his skin. The water drops in his hair.)_ I’m breathing hard through the hand which I’m still pressing against my mouth. I shut my eyes tightly and I hear my blood rushing through my body. _(I need a mirror to confirm a guess, my pupils are very likely dilated, and I should really take my pulse...)_

Someone presses against the door I’m leaning on and clicks it shut with a start, the vibration goes through my body. I open my eyes wide. An arm beside my head. A face in front of mine.

_(John)_

John.

“John.”

“Shut up,” he says. His arm brushes my neck, then he leans forward, presses his body against mine, pulls my head down a bit and kisses me _(and I die)._

And then I remember the small, thin folder in my mind palace, and I know this time I mustn’t forget things, I need to save and file them, I don’t want to lose this memory, I want to keep it.

John, tasting of sleep and toothpaste. His skin, smelling of soap and disinfectants and a bit of orange. His fingers on my neck, a light touch somewhere between tingling and insignificance _(hold on to it, don’t lose it!)_

I let myself push against the door. My face is hot and I want to breathe and at the same time I don’t want to stop tasting him. I want to look at him, want to know what his face looks like when he’s kissing me, but for some unknown reason I just can’t bring myself to open my eyes. My hands move on their own, skim over John’s arms, over the naked skin and feel the bed’s warmth that grows stronger when my fingertips reach a few centimetres under his shirt sleeve.

Suddenly, John breaks away from me a bit, he’s breathing heavily and I remember that I need air as well. He starts kissing a trail down my cheekbones and I feel all the heat from my face and stomach wandering lower. I turn my head so that he can reach my neck. Then he brushes with his teeth over the pulse point under the soft skin on my throat, and I let out a silent moan.

Meanwhile my hands have gone down to his hip, my fingers hook into his shorts first, then push up his shirt a bit, like a question made of fabric. I feel John’s nod against my neck and I lift his shirt even more, my fingertips sensing the warmth. John’s breath dances over my skin, then he takes a step back _(what did I do wrong?)_ and he takes off his shirt completely. I have my eyes open again _(strange how I lose the junctions between my actions. But I need to save all those things!),_ watching his body, then the scar on his shoulder. I lift my hand, ready to skim over it, when John grabs my wrist and holds it against the wall above my head. It’s his secret, I realise, the scar. Something he won’t tell everyone. They all know it exists, what caused it. But seldom is one allowed to see it, and no one ever gets to touch it. Not at first, anyway. _(I want to be the exception),_ I think, not really knowing what that means.

 In the next moment I squirm free of his grip and push him back. He isn’t surprised, in fact there’s a faint smile I’ve never seen on his face before, then he slumps back onto his bed, and I concentrate on filing this smile, putting it into the dark green folder while I’m taking off my shirt as well _(and I don’t know what I’m doing)._

I straddle him, my legs beside his waist, my hands pressed into the mattress right beside his head, my hair frameing his face as we kiss again, this time by my rules. I force his lips apart, feel out every inch of the inside of his mouth with my tongue and save the taste of each tooth and the sound John makes when I grind my burning hip hard against his. It feels good and I repeat the motion and smile against John’s lips, and that feels good as well.

John’s hands seem to be everywhere. On my cool back, which feels even colder with John’s heat underneath me; his hands are gentle at first, then firmer, leaving red lines on pale skin. They are on my neck, pushing my head almost painfully down against his face. Fingers are entangled in my curls, disappearing, pulling, other fingers ghost over my cheekbones, my jaw, my ears, my pulse, wandering lower, hovering over the fabric of my trousers, indecisively. My head keeps spinning.

“John,” I say and can’t get enough of his name in my mouth. He shakes his head but I don’t want to give up, even though his fingers are so close, so close... I exhale in surprise, hissing, and let my head sink to his collarbone, and there John smells so strongly of John that I almost faint, I feel drunk, nothing makes sense. _(I want to keep that feeling, I don’t want to lose it),_ is what I’m thinking while John’s fingers are crawling und rubbing over me and I’m seeing stars in the twilight.

And then I say: “You will stay, John. You won’t leave.”

After that all that I can remember are John’s eyes, which he opens wide, and the way he looks at me, his movements frozen, his whole body tensed and stiff. His sudden snicker. More of a choked laugh. He pushes me away, I’m still drunk, seeing the events through mist and fog and unable to understand what’s happening. John says things. Then he shouts things. In the end I leave his room.

_(I don’t know why)_

Afterwards I lie in my bed, feeling like I have an hangover or am kicking heroin. I try to remember if I took too much before I realise that my new drug is called John Watson and that I don’t understand it at all and don’t know how to dose it. _(And since when does the drug reject the junky?)_

Day 5: **Desire.** I feel bad, John’s words are red arrows in my brain.

 _(“I’m sick of your games and experiments,”)_ says one red arrow.

 _(“Is this your ultimate attempt to keep me here?) (Emotional dependency?) (Is this the sacrifice you are willing to make for the convenience of a flatmate who won’t ask questions and does anything you demand?”),_ other red arrows are shouting.

The arrows bore into my mind, leaving bleeding wounds. I can’t tell if they’re telling the truth. I’m not sure myself why I did it. _(Should I tell him how helpless I am?)_

My mind is bleeding into the night. And the memories are just loose pages in a dark green folder.


	7. Day 6: Violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, what is the next step after the desire? After heat and friction failed? With a twisted mind like Sherlock's this isn't going to end well...
> 
> I appreciate every comment and every Kudo. Thank you very much for sharing this adventure with me. Feel free to leave some thoughts and words, if you have the time. And else: Enjoy!, hopefully as much as I do :)

**Day 6: Violence**

I try to imagine how it would be to hold his hand.

It’s childish, of course! Usually, I don’t think about things like that _(they’re not important)._

I’m starting to see John Watson as a drug. I’m familiar with drugs and addictive substances. It’s not a secret that I have a past with drugs. It hasn’t always been easy to control my racing mind _(and I succeed only partly these days),_ and there was a time in my youth when control was impossible. I remember the night when Mycroft found out, how he stood in the door and smiled _(maybe my intoxicated mind skewed the picture; he could have looked sad or angry, though in my memory he’s always smiling)._ He never addressed it. He let me do what I wanted. I wonder what that means. Am I all the same to him? Does he leave me free to do what I want? _(Does he know the noise of my mind himself?)_ My brother is a mystery to me, and maybe I am to him as well. It’s all the more surprising that he’s interfering now.

I lay my palms on top of each other, interlace my fingers as if I would like to pray, file away the feeling of grinding skin and shake my head in disappointment. It’s not the same. It doesn’t arouse anything. I tried stroking my neck like John did _(the thought causes a shiver, the touch itself didn’t),_ skimmed over cheek and jaw with my fingertips. Nothing. I even resumed my experiments in masturbation _(I ended my research in this field years ago because it just wouldn’t bring any results and I couldn’t understand the fascination of people who occupy themselves with this action)._ I gave up soon after, the experience resembled my previous studies, it bored me, it lacked in tension, in excitement. The one thing that was missing _(and I wrote that fact down in a notebook which was hidden in a box under my bed for years)_ was obviously a partner.

John left the house half an hour ago. I didn’t leave my room to have breakfast with him _(or rather: watch him eating)._ I knew he didn’t want to see me, and I wasn’t sure about how I felt, wasn’t sure past the last days, so I didn’t want to risk it. I would rather lie on the bed in my room and roam through the chambers of my mind palace, leafing through pale red or turquoise folders _(whose content is only important in part, perfect to pass one’s time without challenging the brain too much)._ And I catch myself again wandering by the room, in which the loose pages are scattered around the dark green folder. I don’t dare to enter it, don’t dare to collect the data and create a register and sort the information. And yet, these memories attract me so strongly that it almost crushes my heart, it takes away my breath when I come too close to the door and the hidden pictures behind it. Then I back down and try to forget that I need them so badly that it almost kills me.

Suddenly my mobile phone vibrates. It’s not unusual, at this time for the past five days Lestrade has offered me a case which I have always rejected because I was otherwise occupied _(I look at the list which lies forlorn on the desk, question marks behind item 6 and 7)._ Does it make sense to continue to work off the list? I have the feeling I have reached my limit, I have failed.

Lestrade’s text is similar to the ones he has sent over the past days, it’s still the same case which the police _(oh, surprise!)_ seem not to be able to solve. I sigh, skim over the display with my thumb. Eventually I type some hasty words which tell Lestrade that I will arrive at Scotland Yard in about thirty minutes, and shove the phone back into my trouser pocket.

I put on my shirt, and while I button it up I stare down at the piece of paper. I know I can’t stop. I know that I can’t let John leave. I know that I need him _(and I’m still not sure why)._ My stomach cramps. I need a solution. I need a new idea. Something that will work.

And a plan crystallises in my racing mind, an idea that is not my own. It’s twisted and more than ‘a bit not good’ _(but in my despair I cling to it, and I admit, I even smile a bit)._

My knuckles hurt like hell, but the result is satisfying. The cracking sound and the fact that Anderson is bleeding on the ground at the moment are telling me that I did a good job. Anderson curses, covering his face, which is contorted in pain, Donovan tries to press a handkerchief to his nose while Lestrade grabs me from behind and holds back my arm. I shout something but I can’t hear it, my head vibrates too loud, the blood inside pulses through my ears. I’m furious. I just can’t remember why. Maybe later, when I have cooled down _(but it’s not that easy, so much anger and despair seem to have built up inside me)._

Lestrade pulls me outside, talking insistently to me; I just shake my head and my hurting hand. I’m breathing in the humid air of the day. My head cools down, blurry words become sentences.

“Sherlock, go home,” Lestrade says, and I tiredly nod. I turn around and stroke over my swollen knuckles while the memory comes back.

_(“Where is your constant companion?” Anderson asks, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed.)_

I leave behind the cab that Lestrade called, I need the walk now. An imaginary map of the surroundings flickers in front of my eyes, I only need a second before I recognise the way home. I walk down the footpath, my thoughts are flying, people are getting out of my way, irritated, but I only marginally see them.

_(“I heard he’s going back to Afghanistan. He came by yesterday to say his goodbye.” Anderson chuckles dismissively. “It seems the good doctor grew tired of you.”)_

The humid weather swept the park, a single jogger runs on the other side of the lake, blows breath clouds into the wet air. Above me the leafless branches of the willows are rustling in the wind, crackling and creaking under the pressure of the atmosphere.

_(“Maybe he is even fleeing from you. All the bruises and scratches. Who knows what you did to him at home.” He looks back to Donovan and his smile grows deeper, the wrinkles in his face darker. “I could imagine that you perform experiments on...” Fist meets nose. Fracture. A simple equation.)_

The streets are shining from old rain. The next shower will wash away the winter. It’s Saturday, the people are frantic. And I am becoming calm and clear among them. When I cross the street I see my contorted reflection in the wet asphalt. It means nothing. It’s what is left behind of me. I enter another phase. My mind rules my body, the pain in my knuckles is long forgotten. My face must look empty, vacant. But behind it, in the depth of my brain, something is working and stretching strings to hands and feet. I am a machine _(and it sounds like something John could reproach me with)._

No matter how you look at it. It is and will be a knife I’m holding against his throat. Something inside me struggles, the other part thinks that this is the answer to my problem.

John is staying calm, he has long since been forced into a corner, his back pressed against the living room door, my body against his, the blade on bare skin. But he is a soldier, he knows how to deal with crisis situations _(my brave warrior),_ and so he’s just watching me with a combination of suspense and anticipation and astonishment. He’s not yet horrified. He still doesn’t suspect that I’m serious. That I’m not myself anymore but the part of my mind that can’t bear that he will leave. He needs to know. He needs to know what he’s dealing with. That’s why I say:

“You can’t leave.” _(And actually I mean: I can’t bear that you’ll leave me alone.)_

“You will stay.” _(Please stay, I need you.)_

“If it’s necessary, I will force you to.” _(Don’t leave me alone, I can’t stand this painful thought.)_

I don’t even realise that the wrong words are dripping out of my mouth and straight into his ear. John’s eyes widen, he swallows, feeling the steel against his neck.

“You’re insane,” he silently says and I smile and nod. Then I kiss him. He doesn’t fight back. It feels wrong but I don’t care.

“Do you know why I’m leaving?” he asks when I break away from him. I don’t look into his eyes, but I can make out a sad smile. “You won’t understand it,” he adds, so quiet as if it weren’t meant for my ears. “I’m doing it for you.”

“You’re lying!” I shout. My free hand grabs his jaw, I turn his head up and somehow I manage to look into his brown eyes. “You’re lying,” I repeat, softer _(and I begin to doubt)._

“Why do you want me to stay?” John asks. He doesn’t blink, as if he were afraid of missing something _(what is he seeing in my dark eyes, which are sometimes steel-grey, sometimes blue or even as black as the shadows of London?)_

I watch him for a long time. John Watson, I think, how is it possible that you always say the right thing? How is it possible that you keep being a riddle to me? Some people believe you to be normal. Ordinary. Some of them even think you’re boring. You’re more. So much more. _(Are these the things I’m supposed to say? Are these the right words? Why is it that I don’t know what the right things are?)_

John sighs, then grabs my arm with the knife. Seconds later he is pressing my face against the door, my arm painfully twisted to my back. With one motion of his hand he disarms me. I suddenly feel the pain in my knuckles again and it dawns on me what I just did, right at the moment when the knife hits the floor. _(I held a blade against John’s throat.)_ I convulse, John still holds my arm. _(I threatened him.)_ The realisation takes my breath away. I scream the carbon monoxide out of my lungs, sliding to the ground. John’s body is warm against my back.

When I turn around after a few minutes, John is gone, and the warmth nothing more than a delusion.


	8. Day 7: Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock becomes desperate he takes this challenge to a new level...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what's funny? I forgot that I never postet the last two chapters to this fanfiction. Hahaha. Right? ...
> 
> Seriously. I finished the story, I posted the German original and then I forgot that there were two English chapters ready to post. I know. And I'm so sorry. As far as I get it you folks waited almost exactly a year for two chapters that were ready and on my computer all the time. Yes, I think that's funny. And cruel. And then funny again.
> 
> I hope these chapters are now worth the waiting. 
> 
> I'm sorry. I really am. Have fun reading, anyways. <3

 

**Day 7: Death**

 

London’s lights.The lights of the city that is me.

This big, breathing organism is my mind which races, millions of voices talking across each other, billions of thoughts flashing in midnight heat. The dark alleys are my veins, through which people are floating like blood, each one with its own life and pulse _._ A crime scene is like a drug, it gushes through my body and contaminates my blood, makes it silent and dead, and my mind becomes quiet und enjoys the emptiness of the alleys.

And deep inside London, under smoke and lights, there is 221b Baker Street, my heart, filled with files and smellsand names andemotions _._ (And John Watson is mypulse)

_  
_

 

The world around me is shattered. Fragments are lying on the ground, forming a pattern around my body. One bed sheet, I count, books, documents, wood that once was a chair before I smashed it on the edge of my bed, broken pieces of a cup, white porcelain against dark wooden floor. I’m grinning.

The ground is cool against my back. I relish the silence.

After a while I swallow down my smile, wipe the dust from my face. My curls are black in the twilight of the room, cobwebs of light are sneaking through the curtains. I forgot the time, it counts for nothing. Today is Sunday, tomorrow will be Monday. I have lost my pulse.

When I roll my head to one side, I can see the black casket. Two small syringes have rolled out of it, the needles are pointing in my direction, like an invitation. The third syringe is between my stiff fingers. It is empty.

My body is numb. I don’t know any more if the ground is cold or if it’s me. The puncture in the crook of my arm itches.

I try to remember why I took it. I try to remember how much I took. My mind isn’t used to the drug any more, too long ago since I last took it, since I replaced it with crime scenes and chases through London’s alleys. Back when my head screamed even louder. Before Baker Street. Before John Watson.

Now I’m my very own crime scene, around me are the pieces of evidence from a fight with myself. Shards. Splinters.

My arm is itching again, under the skin is the feeling of John, who is leaving me, who is going away because he deems it best. And then I, writing a list and failing, each item a disaster. What did I do wrong? I laugh at my own stupidity.

Fingertips are reaching for broken pieces, cold skin touches cold porcelain. I scratch open my skin until the itching disappears and blood is seeping into the dark wood underneath me.

The drug rushes through my veins and then out of my body into the silence of the room. I’m losing my pulse between the floorboards. 

I laugh.

Then I fall silent.

 

 

 

“How is it possible he still has drugs inside the flat?”

“...”

“I don’t care how carefully you searched the place. He actually has enough here to...No, of course not!”

“...”

“No, no. It’s all right. The cuts aren’t that deep.”

“...”

“It’s just...We thought it would help him when I leave. But it’s making things even worse. I don’t know...”

“...”

“No! You can’t know that! You don’t know him like I do! You...have no idea who he is.”

“...”

“I know, I know. Yes, tomorrow morning, half past eight.”

“..." 

“Mycroft, I want you to search the damn flat. Every corner! I don’t want a single gramme of that stuff to be here when I leave. I want you to take care of him. That you get off your bloody backside and...”

“...”

“It’s your goddamn duty as a brother! Pull yourself together, for Christ’s sake. Tomorrow, half past eight. I will be on time.”

John hangs up and is quiet. He watches me sleep for a while, then he leaves the room.

I open my eyes, my head hurts, stars are dancing in the corners of my eyes, my mind is still packed in cotton wool, and yet: I have never been clearer before.

My arm is wrapped in thick bandages, a red dot blooms on the white cloth. I don’t feel the pain yet.

Dazed, my gaze ghosts over the floor, the fragments have disappeared. John must have cleaned them up while I was lying unconscious and stoned amongst them. Now I’m lying on my bed and don’t dare to stand up, out of fear I might faint at an instant. I know the impact of the drug, I know its side effects, and the silence in my head is just one of them.

Suddenly, I realise something is missing, more than the shards and splinters. The list. I look over to the desk, then beside the bed, but it’s nowhere to be seen. It becomes clear to me, that John must have found it. I sit up after all: my head begins to spin, I breathe for a few minutes in slow pulls, getting used to the feeling of oxygen inside my lungs. Then I touch the floor with my bare toes and sneak through my room, eavesdrop at the door, peek through the gap. And finally I take a step outside and trudge into the living room. And there is John, watching me with a combination of concern and rage and sorrow. And everything my dull mind can think of is that he can’t leave me. That I need him. No other thoughts, no interjections, no brackets, my mind is clearer than ever.

John observes me for a while, as if he wants to make sure that I’m staying firm, then he approaches me and looks into my eyes.

His slap across my face leaves a glowing trail on my cheek that I can feel even through my foggy mind. I lift my hand in surprise, place it above the blaze on my face, look at John and know that I deserved it. John is holding the list in his other hand. I swallow.

“What the hell, Sherlock?” he asks, but he speaks silently, almost sympathetically. His gaze wanders down to my injured arm, and I lightly shake my head. It’s all right, I want to say. But my body betrays me and vertigo seizes me, I falter. Johns grasp is strong and determined. I feel the fabric of the sofa underneath me and sit down, close my eyes because everything is spinning around me.

It’s completely silent for a while. I listen to my breathing, then to his. I imagine the quietness of the flat without him; my heart is a cold lump in my chest.

“Day 7: **Death** ,” John reads. I keep my eyes shut, his voice hovers somewhere above me, he is probably standing in front of the sofa, looking down at me. “This list, Sherlock...what should I say? At least it explains a lot. Your behaviour the past days. Although I kind of suspected you were working off experiments.”

I open my eyes in panic. “No!” I shout and stare at him. “No, these are not experiments. This is not...what the list means.”

John slightly cocks his head. “What else?” He smiles, somewhere behind the fog before my eyes he is smiling.

“An attempt to sort my head.” I think about these words for a while, and come to the conclusion that I don’t think they’re fitting, but John nods and maybe he understands. “I needed to... get some things clear. And I knew I needed to stop you from leaving. That required a plan. I wrote one down.”

“Why, Sherlock? Why is the thought of me leaving so awful that you were holding a knife against my throat, that you hurt yourself because you thought that would prompt me to stay? Why is that so terrifying that you simulated...something that isn’t real?”

I only realise after a few seconds that I have stopped blinking and breathing, I just stare up at John and suddenly, now that my mind is turned off, hidden behind fog and cotton wool, I finally understand. The next words come out of my mouth faster than I can think them.

“I wasn’t simulating.” John stays silent. “I don’t know what I’m doing. It just happens. It’s...new and confusing. I’m thinking things. I’m feeling things. And it hurts, John, it hurts so much.”

I watch his face, it looks smooth and clinical. But his fingers are trembling, the list in his hand is vibrating slightly.

“John,” I whisper, and this is the point of no return, there are just words, just thoughts. I can’t tell loud and quiet apart. “I like the way you say my name, you stress the syllables like no one else. You’re not boring, you are a mystery to me, your logic is different from mine, you’re not ordinary, you’re unique.

“I hate it when I can hear from your steps that you’re limping again, but you’re trying to hide it when I can see you.

“Sometimes I want to tell you that you don’t have to sacrifice yourself, sometimes I want to tell you that my life isn’t worth more than yours, and that there was no need for you to put your arms around Moriarty and that I would have never run away at the pool, even without the snipers.

“I dream of you, rarely. But each time you’re the one who leaves me. Then I wake up, one hand reaching up and your name in my mouth. You name tastes of warmth and caramel, John, did you know?

“In my mind palace there is a small dark green folder. It has your name written on it. I don’t dare to open it anymore, I feel dizzy at the thought of you leaving. And then there is this tingling on my skin, this itching, I scratch up the skin until the itching disappears and all that remains is pain so that I forget it. Because it hurts, John, it hurts so much to feel, and no one ever told me that. I’m helpless and lost, and I wanted to tell you all these things, but my mind said this would be silly, that you would laugh at me.

I want to open the folder with the memories of the fifth day again, I want to keep them, I don’t want to forget. And someday I want to be the one who is allowed to touch your scar and I will put that feeling into the dark green folder and will never ever delete it.

Don’t leave me, John. I know, it’s dangerous and sometimes I just run off without looking back. But John, John, you are my pulse, you drive the blood through my veins, and if you go away, my heart would go with you.”

His hands are stroking my hair; without me noticing he has sat down next to me. My head weights too much for me alone and he knows that. So I lean against his shoulder; his fingers entangled in my curls, my words are heavy in the air and rest there like memorials. They press against my chest and I can’t breathe. And then he brushes a strand from my temple and his lips are lightly touching me, and he smiles against my skin.

“Sherlock,” he says, silently, testing, the syllables are sneaking into my mind, “Your name tastes of nutmeg and darkness.”

 


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long. I forgot about this. I lost all my documents for a short while. I found them again yesterday. Here, you deserve this.

**Epilogue**

I’m sorry. So many words _(so many thoughts)._ I don’t know what to say. I’m silent. You seem lost down there. The wind is tugging at you, your face is grey. You would like the view, really, I know you like London as much as I do _(although for different reasons)._ I wish I had wings, now I just spread my arms.

I’m sorry, John.

Only seconds till I lose sight of you as I fall.

 

 

 

 

The dark green folder is standing in a room full of shelves. Pictures are hanging on the wall. A lamp illuminates dark wood, shadows are dancing over documents. Scattered on the ground are memories _(in my mind I’m leafing through them right now)._ I find what I need. I open the file.

 

 

 

 

John’s body against mine, he is warm but shaking in anticipation. His lips on mine, our tongues are fighting against our breath. My hand in his hair as though I needed to hold on to something, and maybe I will fall when I let go of him, maybe this would be the end.

“Your name tastes of cinnamon and darkness.” The last words he spoke before we bore down on each other like waves, we collapsed and gave up. Now, everything is heat and desire, our limbs entwined, our thoughts gone. My mind clears up, I feel it coming back out of the fog in my head, how it curiously tries to gain the upper hand again. The impact of the drug abates, and yes, I know how stupid it was to addict myself to it once again, and yet I wished the numbing effect would last a bit longer.

As it is I fight myself, I try to memorise the important things _(how John feels, the smell, his smile, the curling of the corner of his mouth)_ and to not drift away into this clinical state, this coldness. I don’t want to become impersonal again, this is not one of my experiments.

John strokes my chest, leaning over me while my head is pressed down into the pillow on my bed. I can barely recall how we ended up here, it must have happened somewhere between kissing and breathing and laughing, and maybe we stumbled onto the mattress afterwards _(indecisive, nervous, happy)._ I place my hands on his hips, then I skim over his back, unbelieving, all the way up to his neck, his hair. Sand blonde, I think, and before my eyes are flickering pictures of a beach and the sea and I can smell salt and sun. He lowers his head, I meet him halfway, and once again we become entangled, our hands get lost in the middle of nowhere and fingertips are dancing over skin. I blink into the shadows, close my eyes and mumble words against John’s mouth, which curls up into a smile _(at first I whisper his name, then I curse when his hands are wandering lower, then I tell him that he can’t leave me; this time he doesn’t push me away)._

My pulse is hammering in my throat, blood is rustling in my ears when John presses his hip against mine and I startle, I push up, I need the friction _(and the last layer of fabric between us seems so distracting, but I don’t dare to take this last, final step)._ Fingernails are digging into John’s bare back, leaving red streaks. I feel my stomach tingling, then burning, then almost exploding. John’s fingers sneak under the fabric of my shorts, my head stays breathless at his neck. I want to mimic his motion, I try to lift my hand under his touch. But there are bright spots in the darkness, I’m breathing nothing, my spine rises up against his chest, and John smiles against my surprised face the moment I come, and even though I’m not touching him it seems to be enough for him to follow me, and we’re trembling and shaking and burning and whispering and tumbling. _(We’re falling.)_

“Your hair.” John is sitting on my bed, he gestures in my direction with his hand, while I stand in the door, still dripping from the shower I just took. “You should get it cut. It grew incredibly long the past weeks.”

I smile _(he had noticed it, all this time he had noticed it),_ and I lift the towel to dry off my hair. Then I look up again, John is staring right through me, gazing at an invisible point behind me _(or after me, when he’s gone?)_ and I lower my hands. He looks small in his shirt, his shoulders slouched, the smile on his face only a memory. The room smells of soap and hot water, of two showered bodies, almost sterile, and as much as I like cleanliness, I already miss his scent.

“I will come up with an idea,” I whisper and John nods. He hesitates, his fingers tipping nervously against his thigh, and I laugh.

“Just stay,” I say _(meaning my bed first, then the flat, then me)_ and John nods again.

 

Many people fear the morning after. They’re afraid they have to say something, that inconvenient things will be addressed. They dread the silence and the pressure to laugh, and then they get up to make coffee. Or they just disappear but forgetting their socks or shirts.

Our morning is silent. We relish it. We watch each other, knowing that nothing needs to be said _(because everything has already been)._ The bed is warm and my limbs are heavy, and when I blink myself awake I look into John’s eyes, which in return observe me. He smiles. We say nothing.

Eventually John leans forward, one hand placed on my hot cheek, and kisses me, just chastely, carefully, then he gets up and leaves the room. A few minutes later I can make out the familiar sounds of a boiling kettle _(and two cups being taken out of the shelf, the fridge being opened, plates being placed onto a table)._ I cross my hands behind my head and stare at the ceiling. My arm is burning a bit, but the wounds aren’t deep, as John said on the phone, and will soon be healed. I eye my mobile lying on the bedside table, the clock shows half past seven.

My mind circles around theories, ideas, basic approaches. John needs to stay here, I think, and my head supports this thesis with arguments. I’m becoming more and more impersonal again, and I sigh. I don’t want to look at this issue so clinically, don’t want to make a list of pros and cons. And yet, the drug has disappeared from my system, and there are three of us in my head again _(I can feel my emotions being pushed into the background, I sense that I’m getting more and more calculating, and really, I hate myself at this moment)._

“John.”

He shakes his head, lowers his tea cup. “Give me four weeks.”

I look at him, irritated, he smiles back.

“And what do you think you will be doing in these four weeks?”

“I will find a way out of it. I’ll convince them that I’m not the right one. I’ll find a loophole. Maybe I’ll pretend to be sick. Or I’ll get a medical estimate from my psychologist. I will come up with something once I’m there.”

I slowly nod. “Why haven't you done this already? Why did you want to leave in the first place?”

He looks at me for a while _(as if he isn’t sure I can handle the truth)_ , then he sighs and says: “I did it for you.”

“You said that before. And you also said that I wouldn’t understand; you were right. Explain.” _(My voice: cold, curious. I’m myself again. Or not anymore. Who knows?)_

“Mycroft said something that changed my mind. He said you couldn’t afford a weak point.”

I remain silent, observe him for a long time. Then I shake my head before he goes on.

“I thought when I leave you alone you would be save again. Alone protects you, in this special case. But...,” John swallows, his fingertips are picking up some single crumbs from his plate, “...I was wrong. You don't want to be alone.”

“I don't want to be alone,” I repeat, just to make it clear.

 

 

 

 

 

Mycroft is over-punctual, which isn’t typical for him. He once said to me, when I was very young, that it is easy to be too early or too late. _(“But being sharp, dead on time, is magic. Timing, Sherlock, is quite an art.”)_

I can hear his steps on the stairs, and this irritates me even more. There is no reason for him to come in and I’m really not in the mood to talk to him, let alone give him as much as a nod of my head _(and most importantly: he will look at us and he will know, and I hoped to keep it a secret from him, just for a while)._

But things never turn out the way you expect. Mycroft pushes the door open with tired fingers, he appears older than usual, and when he sees us standing in the living room, he remains silent for a long time.

Finally he breathes in heavily and says: “Dr. Watson. You can unpack your stuff. Things have changed. We need Sherlock. We need him fully functional. And as it seems, that is impossible without you.”

I cock my head and try to analyse him _(sleepless night, crumpled suit, trembling fingers, three mobile phones in his trouser pockets),_ but I don’t draw the right conclusions.

“What’s so important, then?” I quietly ask. John didn’t move to his room, he is just shifting nervously from one foot to the other.

“Moriarty. He’s back.”

I falter, mentally and physically. Then I draw one inch closer to John, touch his hand lightly, just for a second.

 _(That means trouble),_ says this touch.

The corner of John’s mouth twitches into a short smile.

 _(It means more time for us),_ tells this motion.

 

 

 

 

 

The pages are silhouettes, they are scattered in my palace. Pieces. Fragments. The dark green folder closes. The memory goes with it.

 

 

 

 

I’m sorry about how this went. It’s wasn’t always easy with me, John, and I wonder how you put up with me for so long. Something inside you must love me, really absolutely, unconditionally love me. Even when I told you that everything I am is a lie, you still believed in me. I admire you for that. Really.

This is not the end, John, truly, it isn’t. It’s a blank gap, maybe, a deleted memory. Later we will remember these three years and we won’t laugh, we will be silent, and we will believe it never happened. The fall is just a nightmare which took place in our heads.

When I’ll return you’ll ask me: Why? I will tell you that I did it for you, and maybe you will slap my face again. But you will believe me. You won’t ask any further questions, you won’t want to know why I jumped, why I faked my own death, why I didn’t come back to you at an instant. You won’t want to know why I left you.

I fell. I died. That’s the whole story.

But I will come back, John Watson. One day I will come back to you.

Because I can’t simply leave when there are things undone.


End file.
